


Time Crossed Lovers

by MERCJACKSON



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Autistic Caboose, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sign Language, Trans Male Character, descriptions of injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 08:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16531436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MERCJACKSON/pseuds/MERCJACKSON
Summary: “What's your name?” That's Tucker again, stepping closer as he speaks. He pushes the tip of the gun to the man's visor, right where his temple would be.“Agent North.” There's no fear in his voice, no malice either. North's been in this position more than once, he knows how to handle himself. Even if Washington can't handle himself.Tucker flinches, just slightly, like the name is setting him on fire. “Oh,” it's soft, it's knowing. “Drop your guns,” he gestures to the Reds and Blues, putting his own gun down. “Let's, uh—” he reaches to scratch the back of his helmet, “everyone out,” he orders, giving a quick ‘Fuck off!' when they complain.





	Time Crossed Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! First I want to give the BIGGEST thanks to Nick, Charlie and Micah.  
> Nick (arsoniick on tumblr ) who proofread this for me and constantly cheered me on (and who called me gay in the comments.)  
> Charlie who continuously hyped me on and even created fanart for this (linked at end)  
> and Micah who read the first draft, helped me with wording some of the bigger descriptions, and who hyped me on!!!
> 
> I love you all so much!! All mistakes are mine and I hope everyone enjoys this!

_ “Where am I?” _

 

Washington can't breathe. 

 

His chest feels restricted; his lungs refuse to cooperate; he feels like he's going to pass out. There's a hand on his shoulder, gripping him back to the present; a quick side glance and he sees Tucker, who's giving him a look of  _ pity. _

 

Tucker is talking, but Washington can't hear anything. Every word comes out muffled, incomprehensible, like they're coming in through a broken phone. Tucker seems to realize this, taking his attention off Washington and directing questions towards the armor-clad man, who's kneeling in pain on the ground. 

 

Washington knows that armor. Knows every cut, indent, knows the smell of the cleaning supplies that were lathered over it every tuesday. The smell, one that once use to comfort him after every rough day, now made him sick to his stomach. 

 

He blinks, then breathes, taking a moment to collect himself. He ignores the worried looks his friends give him. He ignores the panic that grips his heart and  _ pulls _ . He'll break down when he's alone, in his room, where he can hide under the blankets and pretend this isn't happening. Maybe it isn't. Maybe he's dreaming.

 

Fat chance. He's never had that kind of luck. 

 

“Where'd you come from?” Simmons's skeptical voice is the first one that breaks through his mind.

 

“I was on…” The man sounds dazed, though that's to be expected. The ‘future cubes' leave a discombobulating side effect after use. There's also the fact that he traveled through time. “A military ship. The… Mother Of Invention,” he finishes, hand resting on his cracked visor. 

 

Everyone raises their guns when he moves to get up. 

 

“You a Freelancer?” Tucker asks, aiming his gun at his head, letting his authoritative voice ring over. Oh, how much he's grown. Wash can't appreciate it at this moment. 

 

“Yes.” Wrong answer. 

 

In sync, everyone cocks their guns, pointing the noses towards the mysterious Freelancer. To his credit, he doesn't flinch. 

 

“What's your name?” That's Tucker again, stepping closer as he speaks. He pushes the tip of the gun to the man's visor, right where his temple would be. 

 

“Agent North.” There's no fear in his voice, no malice either. North's been in this position more than once, he knows how to handle himself. Even if Washington  _ can't  _ handle himself. 

 

Tucker flinches, just slightly, like the name is setting him on fire. “Oh,” it's soft, it's  _ knowing. _ “Drop your guns,” he gestures to the Reds and Blues, putting his own gun down. “Let's, uh—” he reaches to scratch the back of his helmet, “everyone out,” he orders, giving a quick ‘ _ Fuck off _ !' when they complain. 

 

Once everyone but Washington, who is grabbed before he can exit, leaves the room, Tucker pulls the aforementioned to the side, switching to a private channel. 

 

“Wash— is that… are you okay?” he asks, keeping his voice soft, tightening his grip on the other man's bicep. 

 

“I'm fine,” he says quickly, defensively, “and, yes. That's… yes.” His voice quivers, a small indicator that he might just cry. Tucker can tell. 

 

“Are you sure? Because I can—”

“I'm fine!” he yells, feeling his heart break when Tucker jumps. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he whispers, knocking his helmet up against Tucker's, pausing for a moment.

 

“I'm fine,” he whispers, mostly to himself. 

 

He steps away, turning to North, who is staring at the two, shoulders slumped. “I can't… can you take him to a room? Tell Kimball I'm giving the okay. I need a second,” he asks, keeping his voice even. 

 

Tucker nods, giving him another pat on the shoulder before making his way to North. He gives one more unsure look towards Wash, who is already taking his hurried leave. 

 

His chest feels constricted, like someone is grabbing his ribs and pushing on them. He doesn't know what to do, his mind is too hazy to train, and he doesn't feel like talking to any of the Reds. He decides that his best option is to go to his room, take a nap, clear his brain— anything to distract himself from…  _ this _ . 

 

The walk to his room is slow and quiet; the privates and lieutenants must have sensed his mood, because they make no effort to talk to him. He's appreciative of that. 

Once he opens his door, he's surprised to see Caboose, armorless and sitting on his bed, a smile painted on his scarred face. 

 

‘Hi Wash,' Caboose signs, putting his right fist over the left, making a circle motion. ‘Are you okay? Is today a no talking day?' he asks, taking his hand down from his mouth.

 

Wash can't help but smile, taking off his helmet and setting it to the side. “No, Caboose, it's okay,” he assures, moving to sit next to the bigger man. “Why're you in here, buddy?” he asks, letting out a huff when Caboose brings him into a hug.   
  
“Your body language was all weird and sad. I thought maybe you needed some hugs!” Caboose explains, pressing a kiss to Washington's cheek. “What's wrong?” he questions, taking a more serious tone. 

 

“I'm okay, Caboose,” the Freelnacer lies, feeling foolish when the blue soldier gives him a skeptical look and shakes his head. 

  
“No, you're sad. I can see the redness in your eyes. Please talk to me,” he's frowning now, and, man, does Wash hate that face. He hates making Caboose upset. He  _ really  _ does. 

 

“That man in there, he's… from Project Freelancer. You know that. But,” he sighs, pressing his face into Caboose's shoulder, letting the bigger man give him a tight squeeze, “he's my… ex friend.” He isn't ready to say it, isn't exactly privy to the idea of giving his tragic past to everyone— the only ones who really knew were Tucker, Carolina, and Epsilon. “But he's dead. They are all, and seeing him again… hurts.” 

 

He hates how his voice breaks.

 

“Why would seeing your ex friend hurt you?” Caboose asks, his face contorting in a confused  manner. “Shouldn't you be happy?” 

 

“No, Caboose. It hurts because he doesn't belong here. He has to go back to his time, and then I'll just be… losing him again.” It comes out quiet, his voice hitching as a couple of tears form at the corners. “What would you do when.. You have the opportunity to see to your best friend again, to speak to them, but you're afraid you won't be able to let go once it's time to say goodbye?”

 

Caboose's frown turns into a look of empathy as he jostles Wash, pulling away to look at the crying man's face. His eyes soften around their edges, and he pulls Washington back into a hug, not reacting when the other man gets his neck wet. 

 

“When Church died— the original Church— I was so,” he takes a moment, trying to find his words. Wash knew how hard Alpha’s death hit Caboose, Tucker telling him about the emotions and mania that had gripped the poor man. — “heartbroken. I didn't think I was ever going to find another best friend, someone who mattered more than the world to me, but… I did. I found you, and the Reds, even Tucker, who's really dumb at times,” he grimaces, sticking his tongue out at no one. 

 

This isn't helping him. He's glad Caboose considers him a best friend, but all it does is remind him that he's the reason Church— Alpha— is dead. He lets out another sob. 

 

Caboose shushes him, kissing him on top of his head. “I'm not mad at you,” he promises, before continuing, “If I had the chance to see Church, to see Alpha, I would take it. It would be so sad at first, to see him even though I knew it wouldn't last,” Wash can feel the tears dripping on top his head, making his hair wet, “but… if I  _ did  _ see him, I could say all the things I didn't get to before.” 

 

Washington pulls away from Caboose, grabs his shoulders and pulls him forward, this time, comforting  _ him _ . He rubs the man's back, kissing the top of his head, not interrupting. Caboose needs this just as much as Wash does.

 

“I could say I'm sorry, tell him I miss him, that I loved him, that… I'm sorry I never said goodbye.” There's a long pause. The only noise filling the room is the shuddering of breath, and the small cries escaping their mouths. 

 

“You should talk to your friend, Agent Washingtub. It'll be hard, but it's nice to see your friend. If only for a moment.” 

 

Washington sighs and pushes away from Caboose. He wipes his eyes and nods. “You're right Caboose. Th— thank you,” he smiles, letting out a laugh when Caboose lunges for another hug, peppering his face and the top of his head with kisses. 

 

He stays with the simulation trooper for another couple of hours, switching the conversation to talk about Caboose's newest project, which involves Santa and a humanoid body. Wash just sits there and listens, nodding when he had to and giving small hums. The talk really helps, but his mind is still running afterwards. What is he going to do, how is he going to talk to North without immediately breaking down? 

 

Eventually his eyelids begin to feel heavy and he drifts off, eyes still red and puffy and heart still hurting. 

 

He doesn't dream. 

  
  


                                                              ♡♡♡♡

 

The next day he gets up, gently brushing Caboose off him. He slowly puts his armor back on, taking his sweet time buckling every clasp. His eyes are sore from how much he was crying, and his hair feels greasy, but he feels ready.

 

The walk to North's room is slow. Almost everyone is asleep, in each other's arms, no matter whether their significance to one another. He's spent most nights in Tucker's arms, talking each other to sleep, whispering against the nightmares. 

 

He wonders what Tucker did last night. He didn't stop by his room, so maybe he'd spent the night in his own, or Grif's. They can talk later.  For now, he has to focus on North. 

 

The room North was given is fairly small— they aren't exactly free on space— and placed next to Cunningham, who had made a fast and easy recovery from Locus. 

 

He stands outside the door for five minutes, his fist hovering just above the metal. Taking a big breath, he knocks, opening the door once he gets the ‘ _ okay _ ’. 

 

North is sitting on the bed, out of armor. His platinum hair is falling over his forehead, freeing itself of its gelled confines. Half of his body suit is off and tied against his waist, showing off scarred pale skin. Washington does not blush. 

 

His lack of attire isn't surprising. No one in the Project was that keen on wearing their armor all the time, minus Florida, and Washington himself, of course. 

 

It's been so long that he can't contain the rush of tears. He hates himself for it; he'd spent all night crying and now he's just starting up again. He truly feels pathetic. He has photographs, video logs, memories and mementos of the older man, but nothing compares to the real thing. 

 

There were beautiful men in Project Freelancer, sure. York with his light brown skin and loving hazel eyes; Maine with his muscular build and gleaming smile; even creepy Florida, whose hair fell below the waist, and whose mouth curved in a way that would leave any man wanting.  

 

They were all beautiful in their own way, but  _ North _ , to Washington, was the handsomest, far beyond compare. 

 

North was ethereal. Every feature on his chiseled  face seemed hand picked by God himself. His eyes, soft and caring, were filled with love and warmth. His mouth, with his slightly crooked, white teeth and chapped, pink lips almost seemed inviting.  Even his posture, calm and relaxed, brought Washington back to a different time. A more comforting time. 

 

Suddenly, he wishes he was twenty four again, sneaking around the M.O.I. and drinking stolen beer with North and York. 

 

He takes a shaky breath and opens his mouth, ready to speak, but North beats him to it. 

 

“I was wondering when you'd stop by,” his lips curve into a small smile. Not the fake one he uses during interrogation. No— this one is bright, and real. Oh,  _ so _ real. 

 

“I— erm— what?” Washington asks, slumping his shoulders in confusion. He's no longer a rookie in Project Freelancer, he's a captain, and a respected one, at that. So why is he shifting foot to foot, acting like a kid who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar?

 

“I'd recognize that color scheme  _ anywhere _ . Not exactly subtle, Wash,” North jokes, letting out a snort.

 

“Oh. Um,” he stutters. He closes his mouth before opening it again, only to shut it once more. He bites the inside of his cheek, grabbing a metal chair that came standard with any room, and takes an awkward seat across from North. 

 

North keeps his eyes on Wash, cunning and playful, like he's studying the other man.

 

“Sooo,” North trails off, looking at the roof before landing his eyes back on Wash, “what is this? A dream? A simulation?” he asks, biting his lips, a habit he'd picked up long ago, one that showed whenever he was thinking.

 

“Time travel,” Wash explains, simple and easy. Not that time travel is simple, nor easy. Maybe if he keeps his answers short, North won't be able to tell how frazzled he truly is.

 

“Ah. That makes sense,” he hums, as if this is a normal occurrence in his day to day life. He takes a pause, eyes glazing over, mouth twisting down into a blank stare. It's the pause you take when you're talking to an AI— not like Wash has ever experienced it, but he's seen it enough times before to remember it. 

 

“Are you talking to Theta?” Washington blurts involuntarily. He has to admit, he's missed the little guy. 

 

North raises a brow, nodding. “You can come out Theta, it's just Wash. No one scary,” he promises.

 

Washington feels his mouth dry. He knows he isn't scary now. But what would North think if he knew Washington during recovery, if he knew Wash shot an innocent man? Everyone in the Project was dangerous, but they never, intentionally, harmed innocents.

 

He's freed from his thoughts when the familiar hologram pops up, displaying Thetas' small, anxious figure. His movements are stalled, and a bit glitchy; the traveling probably messed him up a bit. 

 

“Hi, Wash,” his childish voice brings on a flurry of memories, most of them starring himself and North walking down the halls in the late nights, trying to lure Theta to sleep— or whatever the closest thing to sleep for an AI was.

 

“Hello, Theta. You look well,” he smiles, trying to keep his voice calm. He didn't want to make the boy nervous, as he always did seem to sense anxiety. 

 

“Thank… you,” Theta mumbles, before pausing and flicking out.

 

“Don't mind him, I think this… time travel?”— a nod from Washington— “Stuff got him all cranky and and out of sync.” He flashes his signature smile.

 

“So, the future,” North pauses, thinking for the right thing to say. “How many years has it been?” he asks, focusing his eyes where Washington's eyes would be, if he wasn't wearing a helmet. 

 

“Fourteen,” he whispers, like if North doesn't hear it won't be true. Maybe no time has passed, maybe they're still in the Mother Of Invention, still in each other's arms where nothing bad ever happens. “It's been fourteen years.” 

 

North hears. Of course he does.

 

He lets out a long whistle, leaning back before shooting himself back forward. “Fourteen years? Alright. Take the helmet off, I have to see for myself,” he gestures to Wash's helmet. It's not a question, but it's not a demand. Hopeful, but giving an out.

 

Wash takes a shaky breath, reaching up to slowly push the helmet off, wincing at the sound of compressed air being released.

 

He's anxious— of course he is. Over the years, his appearance had drastically changed; despite being a couple years older than him, not even Carolina greyed as much as he did. His brown eyes, that were once vibrant and full of life, now seem dull and cloudy from years of trauma. The worst part, though, in his opinion, is the plethora of scars that cut into his skin, lining over his lips, cheeks, forehead—everywhere really.  

 

His scars are an ugly reminder to him. Painful, ugly memories that laced his skin. He never found anything particularly beautiful about his scars, even though Sarge has told him that he should be proud of the mementos of courage he carried. He just can't. Some days he isn't even able to look in the mirror. 

 

North, apparently, doesn't feel the same way.  He wastes no time diving over to Wash, placing his hand on the other man's cheeks, shifting his head in order to examine it. His hands are warm and soft, despite the callouses, sending shivers up and down Washington's spine.

 

He wishes they could stay in this moment. 

 

“Glad to know you got handsomer with age. I'm sure I wasn't as lucky,” North quips. 

 

It's a joke, Wash knows it's a joke, but that doesn't stop him from freezing up. Without his helmet his emotions are in full view, which he considers a problem, taking into account how perspective North is. 

 

“How'd it happen?” he asks, voice barely a whisper. 

 

Washington lifts up his eyes to meet North's, surprised at the lack of anger or sadness. Instead he's greeted with a small smile, barely there, but just about noticeable. Comforting in a small way. 

 

His breath hitches and his hands clam up. He feels panic shoot through him.

 

He remembers that day clearly. North's body, dead and unmoving. The smell of burnt armor and skin. The coldness in his voice and actions as he disposed of him. The pain of bullets piercing his back. Everything. 

 

“You were… shot,” not technically a lie, “killed in action.” 

 

North nods, never dropping the calm smile. He probably senses Washington's anxiety, shifting to wrap his arms around an armored torso, shushing the younger once cries came from his mouth. 

 

Washington hates himself. He shouldn't be the one being comforted, he isn't the one who  _ died _ , but here he is, sobbing in the man's arms. Pathetic. 

 

“It's okay, David,” North assures him, kissing the corner of his eye, “you're okay.” North doesn't move, not caring about the tears wetting his suit. 

 

They stay in the position for a while, soft sobs and comforting hushes filling the silence. It reminds him of the Project days, when his anger and anxiety would get the best of him and all he could do was sob as North rubbed his back. 

 

After ten minutes his cries dry down, his face now covered in tear stains. He lets out a shuddering breath, turning his face to North, who still has on a comforting smile.

 

This close, he can see the man in detail. Every small scar, his blonde eyelashes, the hole where his lip piercing use to be, the mole under his left eye that Wash had always love. Every perfect detail. 

 

He's about to speak, to thank North, or to apologize, when the feeling of lips brush against his own. 

 

He quickly registers this to be North, who still kisses like he was courting the first time. His stomach drops and his eyes shot open, then quickly shut, moving to kiss back.

 

It lasts ten seconds before Washington shoves him off, wiping his lips and standing up, the chair scraping behind him.

 

“I— I can't, I'm sorry. I'm… it's been a lot of years. I'm seeing someone. I have to. I have to go,” he pushes his helmet on, running out of the room, ignoring North's distressed call. 

 

He runs until he feels far enough, runs until North's voice was nowhere in the distance, runs until he feels his hands stop shaking. 

 

He can't breathe. 

 

                                                          ♡♡♡♡

 

“Agent Washington?” 

 

Wash jumps at the sound, turning his attention to the intruder.  “Matthews,” he breathes out his nose, trying not to snap at the young man. “It's rude to enter someone's quarters without knocking. What can I help you with?” 

 

“Were you crying?” Matthews asks, shifting on his feet. “I saw you running down the hall and thought I should check on you.” 

 

Wash sighs, wiping his eyes and grabbing for his helmet. “I'm fine, Matthews. Today is just… taxing.” 

 

“Oh,” the Rebel clicks his tongue, shutting the door behind him, much to Washington's dismay. “Is this about the man you and the captains imprisoned?”  

  
“We didn't impression him! He's here willingly,” He defends, smiling when he sees Matthews face perk up with his own smile. “And… yes.” 

 

“Do you want to talk about it? It doesn't have to be with me. Just… with someone. It's not good to hold onto things. That's what Captain Grif told me, at least,” Matthews suggests, shyly moving his hand to the back of his helmet, obviously anxious. 

 

“Captain Grif is smart,” Washington hums, looking back down towards the ground. 

 

“If it's not too disrespectful, sir… can I ask who the man is?”

 

“A ghost from my past, Matthews. He'll be gone soon, once we figure out the alien technology surrounding it. I wouldn't worry about it.” 

  
“It seems like you  _ are _ worrying about it, sir.” 

 

“Excuse me?” It comes out a bit harsh, harsher than he intends it to.

 

“It's just… if it's nothing to worry about, you wouldn't be… crying,” Matthews explains, taking a step back, fear present in his posture. “You're obviously broken up about whatever's happening.” 

 

“That's  _ none _ of your concern, private.” Dropping rank might be the best way to disconnect from the emotional turmoil that's festering in the back of his mind. “Do  _ not _ worry about it.” 

 

Matthews stays still, wrapping his arms around himself, taking another step back.  “I… I'm sorry, sir.” His voice quivers, and for a split second Washington remembers that Matthews isn't fully mature. He may be the age of adult, but his strong emotions and anxieties mirror Palomo's.

 

“It's… you don't need to apologize. I shouldn't have snapped… how have you been, Nicholas?” He asks, tapping the helmet on his lap, shooting Matthews an assuring smile. 

  
“Oh! Um! I've been great, sir! Dr. Grey is having captain Caboose and Colonel Sarge engineer a breathing machine in my suit, it's suppose to make everything easier and less… painful,”  he explains, his tone shifting towards the end.

 

“Do  _ you _ want to talk about it?”  Washington asks, moving over to offer him a seat.

 

Matthews thinks about it before taking a seat, removing his helmet.

 

Matthews has obviously grown the last couple months. His hair is long, dropping past his waist but pulled into a tight bun; his delicate face has scars marking every inch, along with a burn mark covering half of his left side from the MANTIS that shot him.

 

“I'm scared,” he whispers, looking down at his own helmet, “I know there's no real… war, right now, but the effects, the physical ones are still…  _ here _ . Dr. Grey told me my body could shut down at any moment, if left untreated. A… and I  _ am  _ being treated. B— but what if it doesn't work? What if I die? A— and leave Bitters behind? I'm…” He chokes up, tears falling from his cheeks

 

Washington panics, quickly grabbing Matthews and pulling him into a hug. “Hey, sh,” he hushes, rocking back and forth, the same tactic he uses to calm Caboose down. “it's okay. You won't die. It's okay,” he tries to soothe, not pulling away as the younger man wails into his neck.

 

“I don't want to become just some— some  _ ghost _ from someone's past,” Matthews whimpers, tightening his grip on Washington.

 

“You won't… you won't,” Washington whispers, rocking back and forth, pressing his lips to the top of Matthews’ head reassuringly. “I  _ promise _ .”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally this was suppose to be one long thing, but I decided to cut it out instead. It was hard to pick a place to end at, but I really loved the Matthews and Washington scene!
> 
> [Here's](https://merchibis.tumblr.com/post/178464802842/yea-so-i-read-freelancerbf-s-northington-fic-and) the fanart that merchibis made for the fic!!! I look at it everyday.
> 
> Any questions? You can send them to my blog @ cahboose !


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